


Caoineadh

by merelypassingtime



Series: MorMor Ficlets [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Character Study, Gen, I cried and drank Guinness while I wrote this, M/M, MorMor is barely mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-28 14:47:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13906287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merelypassingtime/pseuds/merelypassingtime
Summary: Jim could remember his mother if he tried. He didn't try very often.





	Caoineadh

Caoineadh  
/ˈkiːnʲu/  
_noun_  
a lament for a lost homeland or dirge for the loss of a loved one (particularly a fair woman)

 

Jim could remember his mother if he tried. He didn't try very often.

His father was a blur of sound and emotion in his memories, nothing left of him but the impressions of a young child. But he could recall his mother, her eyes, dark as his own but shining with joy, and the long black hair he had delighted in tangling around his small fingers.

Mostly though, he remembered the music. She had filled the air around her with song, singing in Gaelic, twirling him around the small room of their flat, and lulling him to sleep every night. 

He loved the music and, when not held half-hypnotized by her clear voice, often sang along. It made her laugh, and press kisses to his chubby cheek. She told him that he sang before he spoke, and called him _óg amhránaí_ (little singer).

When he was four, the police broke down their door and took his father and her away. His last memory of her was of the sight of her long hair swinging wildly through the air as she struggled against the constables dragging her out of the flat, and the sound of her voice, screaming his name.

He sat still, just as she had told him to when they had heard the heavy boots pounding up the stairs, being a good boy for her one last time. After her shouts faded from his hearing, he looked back down at the book in his lap, not reading it but not willing to meet the gaze of the men who had taken his mother away.

He had not cried then, nor had he cried later when the social worker had taken him from home to leave him in a strange place, alone for the first time in his life. He’d remained dry-eyed throughout the long trip to his aunt’s grey stone house, and silent during her rant about her ungodly whore of a sister and the evil spawn she had left to burden her honest, hard-working kin.

It wasn’t until his aunt had roughly shoved him into a tiny room and locked the door behind him that he cried. He sank to the floor in the middle of the bare little room, drawing his knees up under his chin and let the tears fall without a sound. 

After they had run their course he found that he was hugging his legs and rocking back and forward humming one of his mother’s songs softly. He took a breath and in a thin, wavering voice began singing:

_Siúil, siúil, siúil a rún_  
_Siúil go sochair agus siúil go ciúin_  
_Siúil go doras agus éalaigh liom_  
_Is go dté tú mo mhúirnín slán_

(Go, go, go, my love  
Go quietly and go peacefully  
Go to the door and fly with me  
And may you go safely, my darling)

Slowly the words faded into a whisper, then ground back into silence. It felt too alien, too wrong singing the familiar tune alone. 

He hugged himself tighter, and swore that he would never sing again.

 

Twenty years later and a world away, Jim stood next to a burning car and watched as the two new recruits he’d brought for this job checked that the man and woman were both dead. When they turned to leave he raised a hand to stop them.

“No,” he said, then pointed his chin back to the child crying on the roadside. “Kill the child as well.”

“What?!” one of them demanded, his voice choked.

“Are you really going to make me repeat myself? I said, kill the child too.” and in his head Jim thought, ‘It’ll be better for her in the long run.’

The man sputtered, “But we can’t do that, she's just a kid!” 

Jim shifted his gaze to the other new man and nodded slightly. He drew his weapon without a word and shot the protesting man in the forehead, before moving towards the crying child.

Jim stood there, never looking away as his order was carried out. When the soldier turned again to leave, his steel-cold blue eyes met Jim’s levelly and Jim thought he saw a hint of understanding behind them.

Moran, his brain supplied. The man’s name was Sebastian Moran. It might be worth remembering.

**Author's Note:**

> The song is called Siúil A Rún. The version I listened to while writing was https://youtu.be/hUT6H2m00Rs  
> Thanks for reading.


End file.
